Bloodtrails
by hyacinthian
Summary: Every nerve ending embedded beneath her skin seems to scream, and her own vocal cords carry out their wishes. It drowns in the numerous layers of fabric. [Character Death]


A/N: This was a random plot bunny. Thanks to Sara for the beta. **Warning**: This story involves **rape** and contains implied **character death**. If you don't like reading this type of stuff, don't read any further.

* * *

It is dark. Lone eyes filled with pain roam towards the ceiling. Yes, the ceiling holds so much for her, for her aching soul. She wishes she could cry. She shuts her eyes, trying to force the liquid to stream from her eyes, like she's seen in her anime videos. She wishes she could shut out the pain. And then the crushing pain returns. It's resting on her chest. It's crushing her. _Mommy, the monster. The monster, Mommy. _She remembers. She remembers everything. Her mother didn't understand. No one did. And now it was stealing her soul. It was taking her. The fire begins to spread. She hears herself weakly protest, beg. "Please, sir. Please, no. _Please_." He doesn't hear her. The burning spreads, and she's trapped in this vortex of pain. She suddenly wishes one of her favorite manga heroes could leap through her window and save her with a corny catchphrase, and unique powers. And then she catches it. The moonlight displays the weapon in the man's hand. _Please, sir. No. Please. _He doesn't listen. And all she thinks as he plunges the knife in again and again is, what did she do to deserve this?

* * *

She is the last to arrive at the scene. There were no firearms involved, but the team was understaffed, and the least she could do was identify evidence and process it. She glances around the scene, and heads to the body. Her mouth falls agape of its own accord, and all she knows is she will remember the body. An eight-year-old girl, bright blonde hair splayed behind her head with cherry red lipstick painted on, lies there, naked from the waist down, legs spread, blood dripping. And then, as she feels the nausea begin to rise, she understands why so many people are crowding the hallway and the window.

She collects and processes, but no matter how many times she'll try and argue with herself, she's tied to this case. Ever since her eyes fell on the poor little girl, she couldn't turn away. To expect something like that of her now would be pointless. She dwells in the lab, where no eyes will stray to her. No one will think anything of it. She'd always come here, and she'd always be here.

He makes his presence known when his foot crosses the threshold. He is all around her. She can smell him, feel his presence. She's not sure whether it's her imagination, but even the air _feels _warmer. He strides over, as is his style, and she swears she's going crazy. She hears the fabric softly rubbing against itself with each stride. She turns to face him, and with a piercing gaze, observes him. She notices that the circles underneath his eyes appear darker, and they also seem to be fuller arcs. It seems trivial, but noticing things like these makes her feel a little better. The monotony and normalcy of the exercise encompass her, and she's almost shielded from her mental images and reminders of the corpse from earlier.

"You look tired," she drawls, her voice coated in misleading honey. It seems too innocent, too sweet to experience these types of things on a daily basis, but she hides more than she reveals.

His eyes are still piercing, but they are not sharp, she finds. A pause hangs in the air. "I could return the sentiment." Another pause lingers. She wishes she could say something, but all the sentences that seem to be randomly appearing in her mind seem trite, and stupid. "You should go home." She wants to lash out at him, to reply with a simple denial, like she always does. Why should _she _go home? He's going to stay anyway. But she responds with mute submission, and begins to gather her things.

She runs through her routine, but all pathways head the same route: to bed. Her plans are disrupted when a wet rag is forcibly shoved over her mouth and nostrils. The sickeningly sweet scent overwhelms her senses. She knows all too well what it is.

She wakes, her arms bound to the headboard, her legs bound separately, spread wide. Her eyes widen as she sees him. His voice coats her nerves with fear. "Hi, sweetheart." He leans and strokes her thigh. "Did you miss me?" And she's fighting the urge to vomit. He kisses her, and she bites him. He slaps her in retaliation. He brings over a strip of fabric, and gags her. The tears stream from the corners of her eyes. She knows what's going to happen. It's instinctive foreshadowing.

He quickly strips and lays on top of her. He then blazes a trail of fire against her skin. Every nerve ending embedded beneath her skin seems to scream, and her own vocal cords carry out their wishes. It drowns in the numerous layers of fabric. He takes her screams of terror as ones of enjoyment. He moves against her, faster, and she swears she can feel the flesh tear. She can hear her body scream in revulsion. She wants nothing but to escape. Or to die. And as her eyes flit around the room in pain, she sights something. And she knows there's a larger chance he'll aid her in the latter.

He shudders against her, and she gags. She can feel him. The wish for death makes itself more distinct in her mind. He strokes her hair, and leans in, his lips close to her ear. "You're so beautiful, honey." He kisses her and she lashes out against him. He laughs, misinterpreting.

He walks over and picks up his knife. It gleams, and she wants to cry. She wants to tell people what she thinks of them, what she really feels. Her eyes close in anticipation. They open, liquid flowing from the corners again. He strokes her hair. "You're beautiful, honey. You're going to clean up real nice. You're already an angel." And he kisses her lips. She squirms, hoping she would be able to do something. She wants evidence to be under her nails, to aid her friends. But she can't. She can't do anything.

He places the blade flat against her skin. It's cool. He grasps the handle, and plunges it into her side. She gasps against the gag as the initial shock begins to go, she can feel something. It's not pain. It's something else. He plunges the knife again into her, into the opposite side. As she feels her blood draining, she realizes he wants her to clean up easily. He sits and watches as she fades.

There's nothing for her to hope for. She's caught. It's a spiral of death. Death and blood.


End file.
